Remembrance
by PhoenixFlame53
Summary: (Written for Narumitsu Week 2015.) Remembering is a process in which you don't just think, you feel, you see, you smell, you taste, you just...be. And remembering that man was something he did very easily indeed.


He remembers the first day you met, as children, as innocents. Your eyes sparkled with fervour. Adrenaline. He remembers the tears he cried, he remembers each tremble of his mouth, each cry from the crowd around him. Everyone's face turned, but yours. Yours, so strong, so powerful, so _determined._ He didn't know until you left that you were porcelain, broken by hands not your own.

He remembers the first letter he sent you. Each word in blue ink, written neatly on paper. _Hi,_ it said, _I miss you._ After the first week, it was merely lost in the post. An accident. _Miles,_ it said, _I'm doing fine, what about you?_ The second and third week, you must have gotten it by then, surely. It kept him sane, the thought of your words sent back to him, the thought of your hand putting your letter in an envelope, the thought of _you. Miles,_ it said, _I don't know where you've gone, but I hope I can visit soon._ After the first month, he cried, and Larry held him close. You were not going to come back.

He remembers his first kiss. It was not with you. He was smitten. Each beat of his heart was for her, every breath, every moment. His life was a blur of passion and dreams, of flowing red hair, of glossy lips and tired eyes. Of _her_. To him, their lips fit together perfectly, blissfully shutting out the world around him, blissfully shutting out _you._ The mere thought of you. And even though he only needed her, at night- when he was most alone- he'd look through the window out at the stars, and wonder why you couldn't share this paradise with him like you did before.

He remembers the first time he read the newspaper and saw you. You, who had left him with no goodbye, you who had left him sobbing and grieving and feel so...so _lost_. At first, he was angry, to see you there in the news. But something didn't fit. _Demon Prosecutor._ And he couldn't help but remember the boy that saved him, the boy that used to be there for him. He knew he had to find you again, to settle the years of questions that had built up, and he made a vow. To let you become his purpose.

He remembers the first time he faced up against you, your words cutting through him bit by bit. You were cold and like ice towards him, and you certainly didn't care. You were different, so different, that he wondered how he even came to want, to _need,_ to see you again. He broke your perfect record, and he left your record tainted. You were porcelain, and he was iron slowly rusting.

He remembers the first time he defended you. You had said never for him to show his face in front of you again. And yet, and yet, he stared you down and asked to defend you. To help you, to protect you. In his naivety he forgot you were porcelain, in his determination he forgot you were in pieces. He offered to put you back together and you denied him that chance, but he wormed back into your life. He always seemed to do so. And as you watched him from the stand, his eyes filled with fervour, everything blurred and your tears welcomed the verdict.

He remembers the first day without you. Your life was separate from his in many ways, and yet intertwined; he didn't want to let you go so soon after finding you again. He wept for you, for the man who took his life, for the man who couldn't live. He blamed himself, for not doing anything, for not leaving you behind. He cursed himself for wanting you to stay, and for caring about you. He hid away. And when you returned, it was lucky that his anger masked those days were he felt like leaving the world behind and moving on.

He remembers the first time you stood as a defence attorney, in his place, with his badge. Your eyes were again filled with fervour, and he knew it, even though he could not see them from his hospital bed. You were the only person he trusted to make the case. And you did. You were the one man he _knew_ could help him. Bedridden as he was, he had a lot of time to think about everything that had happened, everything he had said. And when you returned to him, and told him you had done it, that was the very first time he knew that he loved you.

He remembers his first nights unemployed, and he remembers the first time he told you how he felt. Everything was a blur, of worthlessness and worry. He drank. He sobbed. Each cry racked his body to the core and made him feel like an empty shell. As if he was still 'Phoenix Wright', but he wasn't himself. It was a name. An identity. But not a person. And he remembers you on the phone, demanding to come in, to see him, to check on him. You traced your fingers down his cheeks and wiped his tears and held him, and said that you would never let him go. And he remembers when he told you between sobs that he loved you, and he choked out, "Miles, kiss me," and you did, you did, you did.

He remembers your first night together. You stayed with him, as always, and talked. And smiled, and laughed, and held each other. Both you and him were sitting there, and the tension was overwhelming. Finally, finally, you felt his hand on yours, and you looked at each other, and you asked a question. It was quick, it was new, it was different, it was painful. But you were joined together and making love and _god_ , was it incredible.

He remembers the first time you told his daughter, so young, so innocent. You were shaking. You couldn't move. It had been a secret for months. You opened your mouth to speak, but you couldn't, so he did it for you. _Truce,_ he spoke, in that caring voice you adored so much, _I love him._ And as tears of gratitude streamed down your face, she jumped into your arms and cried. At long last, she had a family. At long last, so did you.

He remembers the first time you fought. It was a little, meagre thing that could have been fixed easily, but it set everything off. Things were said that weren't meant, things were done that shouldn't have been. You stormed out, and he knew he never wanted to see you again. Almost. And in the morning, when he woke up and rolled over and you weren't there, to kiss awake, to hold, to breathe in, apologising seemed like the most wonderful thing in the whole world.

He remembers the first time you said them, the words that bound you two together, the vows that brought you as one. Faces, beaming, crying, smiling. Every part of him loving you, every part of you loving _him_. The planning was vital, and the preparation even more so, but on the day he knew it was absolutely perfect. You felt so blessed to be so joyful, so happy. And as you walked down to join him at the front of the church, he couldn't stop crying at the sight of you, beautiful and wonderful and _his._

Years pass, and your life together is miraculous, beautiful, inspiring.

But now, he doesn't remember the first time that he was told, and he doesn't remember that you both cried in each other's arms. He doesn't remember the first day that you visited him, and he doesn't remember the first time you smiled in weeks, at a joke he told. He doesn't remember the first time that you sat at home all night by the phone, just in case you were given the news. He doesn't remember the first time that Trucy broke down at school, and you had to come and console her. He doesn't remember her, and he doesn't remember you.

He lost his life four days ago, and you can't help but _remember._


End file.
